


Here Until You Die

by PenelopeAbigail



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-01
Updated: 2015-09-01
Packaged: 2018-04-18 12:49:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4706621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PenelopeAbigail/pseuds/PenelopeAbigail
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur lives. There are things he still needs to wrap his head around, questions that need answering, and drastic, life-altering decisions to make.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Here Until You Die

**Author's Note:**

> A rewrite of the finale.

He would die out here.

He just knew it.

He could literally feel the life drain out of him, slowly, bit by agonizing bit, taking its sweet time, like it was playing with him, juggling his life in its hands and he was just waiting for it to finally drop him. He would shatter into a million fragments. 

Who would clean up his pieces?

—

He woke up when it was cool. He could feel the air, a cool breeze, weave in-between his toes. His chainmail was gone, he couldn’t feel its weight, and there was a sound—a strange sound. He couldn’t think of the word for it. 

He didn’t realize it, but he was staring at the fire. When had he opened his eyes? 

A drop of ice-cold water landed on his right bicep, and he looked up. The trees were crying. More tears dripped onto him, onto his arms, his feet, his face, and he blinked rapidly, diverting his gaze.

The fire was dying. 

The trees were crying, _because_ the fire was dying.

Would they cry for him too?

—

The sun was particularly hot that day, and the foliage more beautiful than normal. Was it that being pulled into a different world made things more beautiful, or was it that by dying he was made to cherish the things around him?

—

He felt sick, like he hadn’t eaten in days, stomach-too-empty kind of sick. But he wasn’t hungry in the slightest.

There was some sort of movement, going on beneath him, going on with him, a jostling of sorts. 

Oh, right. He was on a horse. 

Wait. No, he wasn’t. 

There was wind, he was going fast, faster than a horse, he could feel it, feel the powerful gusts of wind through his hair, pushing him back—back into what?

It was sturdy, whatever it was, and he was strapped to it somehow. There was a thick rope/coil/thing wrapped around his waist.

No, it was an arm. He could feel the warmth of body heat transferring to his over-warm body. He could feel the arm straining to hold him still, but he was still jostling quite a bit.

_Why bother,_ he thought. For surely, he was about to die, anyway. Just let him fall.

—

He couldn’t breathe. Moving was too hard. His eyes burned fiercely when he opened them, and then the world was far too blurry.

He knew what was happening. He knew he was dying. He just didn’t think death felt like this.

—

He was warm now, not overly so, but the perfect temperature, so that the cool air prevented him from sweating.

He felt like he had just slept for a whole week, never having been so rejuvenated before, so refreshed. His skin felt crisp and clean, as if it had been washed and dried neatly, by the best maidservant in the whole kingdom. His bed had never been more soft and comfortable, like he was lying on a cloud, just hovering above a still, fresh-water lake—he could smell it, the air, too, was crisply clean.

He could hear a waterfall, faint and distant but unmistakable, could hear the moving of leaves on a tree as a breeze rustled them, and could hear the tell-tale chirps of birds drawing nearer.

He hadn’t moved an inch, hadn’t even opened his eyes, but he could tell that the scenery around him was absolutely beautiful. Never before in his life had he ever been this satisfied with the state of things.

It was as if he had died and gone to—

Arthur opened his eyes. 

All he saw was a blindingly bright light, before it dissolved away into masses of colors and then into shapes, and he knew what he was looking at: a canvas of baby blue, dotted with plops of pure white, all framed by rich green leaves and deep purple flowers.

He was lying beneath a tree from whose branches hung clusters of marvelous wisteria as the morning dew was eaten away by the velvety grass underneath him.

All the beauty made him think of heaven, yet, he somehow knew he was not dead. These sensations were too much like what being alive felt like. He was pretty sure being dead didn’t feel the same way. Therefore, he couldn’t be dead. Why would he be dead, anyway? Did he die in his sleep or something?

Then it came back to him. The war. Mordred. Being stabbed. Merlin. Dying.

Except, apparently, he _hadn’t_ died. Why hadn’t he died?

He remembered Merlin being there with him, helping him, and holding him. Where was he?

He cast his eyes away from the wisteria, and shifted his head ever-so-slightly to the side. There were evanescent flames licking the sides of his sight, but he still couldn’t see anything, so he shifted his body in order to turn his head some more.

Ah, there he was!

Merlin was drawn up into a sitting ball, knees to his chest and his arms hugging them; he looked like a statue, barely breathing or blinking. Arthur stared, waiting for the man to notice that he had woken. Merlin seemed to be very deep in thought, almost a little sad. Actually, the more Arthur gazed, _really_ sad. It almost looked like there were tear marks on his cheeks. 

His eyes were red-rimmed, and the fire light danced in them like golden flames—

Arthur remembered more.

Merlin had magic. 

Merlin was a sorcerer.

And immediately, Arthur wanted to pull back, to run away, to escape the evil being in front of him, but he didn’t. He could only lay there in terror, heart beating too fast, and breathing nearly nonexistent. 

But, wait. Merlin was his friend. He remembered everything now.

Merlin was still Merlin. He still knew who Merlin was, and he was the exact same boy he had always known. He remembers Merlin leading him with the horses, remembers Merlin using all his magic for him, and none of it evil at all. He remembers that Merlin hadn’t been effected by the evils of magic. Merlin was immune to it, not being corrupted in the slightest, not even wanting any sort of credit for his actions. He was the only good sorcerer Arthur had ever heard of.

He remembered that Merlin had been leading him to the Isle of the Blessed to save his life, and he supposed that, considering that he’s still alive, Merlin had succeeded. But then why was Merlin crying? Had something gone wrong? Had Merlin accidentally cursed him instead?

He wasn’t sure if he really wanted the answer, or if he wanted to break the peaceful silence, but he really did want to know if something bad had happened, so he spoke.

“Is everything okay?”

Merlin startled, gasped softly, and quickly jerked his head up, relaxing his hold on his legs. 

“Arthur!”

He gave a little shaky laugh and smiled, instantly relaxing his whole body at, apparently, seeing Arthur well. 

“You’re alive!”

He further uncurled and stood up, presumably to make his way to Arthur to check on him, but he stopped, his face turning from relief to concern.

“How are you feeling?”

He looked like he wanted to bolt right to Arthur’s side, but he just stood awkwardly, near the fire, his hands and fingers twitching slightly.

Arthur didn’t reply right away, but easily sat himself up, glad that no pain assaulted him. He felt perfect, and he told Merlin so, only to receive no real reaction at all.

“Merlin… What are you worried about?”

Merlin sat back down, and said, “I’m waiting for the consequences.”

That, being vague, didn’t satisfy Arthur in the slightest. He readjusted his position and asked again.

“Consequences of _what_?” He was asking cautiously, but there was a hint of edginess in his voice, “Did you use magic to heal me?”

“Yes,” Merlin answered hesitantly, but continued no further.

“Did you get me to the Isle?”

“Yes, and I used the ancient magic of the land itself.” 

Arthur could sense a _but_ there, and he voiced his confusion.

“…But what? What are these consequences? What went wrong?” 

Merlin just avoided his gaze and wrapped himself up in a ball again. 

Arthur got the very distinct feeling that something was _very_ wrong, and Merlin had a hand in it, and judging by the way Merlin hadn’t quite approached him, something was wrong with _Arthur_ , something Merlin seemed _ashamed_ of. What had he done? What was wrong?

He stood up, towering over Merlin who still sat on the grass, leaning on the top of his knees. If anything, Merlin seemed to pull himself in tighter.

“ _Merlin_! Answer me!” Arthur only raised his voice a little, but the tension was heard easily enough.

Merlin stood up, matching Arthur, with the small, dying fire between them. He seemed frustrated, too, as he channeled a bit of anger in his low voice.

“I don’t _know_ , Arthur! I don’t _know_ what went wrong. It seems to have worked _anyway_ , though, since you’re actually _alive_.”

Arthur straightened, leaned back some. He wasn’t expecting that. Merlin had seemed thoroughly ashamed of himself, or something. He thought Merlin had screwed up again—but had he _ever_ really screwed up, or was that all an act? 

_Was Merlin lying to him,_ again? Surely not. Not after Merlin has proven himself, has really shown Arthur who he really was. 

No, Arthur knew, there’d be no more lies.

“How _am_ I still alive?”

Merlin averted his eyes again, cast them down to stare at the ground, as if he were embarrassed of something. Arthur hadn’t accused him of anything, just asked him what happened, therefore Merlin must be ashamed to tell of what saved Arthur.

Nevertheless, he quietly spoke, “For a life to be saved, another life must be doomed.” He looked up, right into Arthur’s eyes, and the fires burning behind those blue irises told of the pride the boy has of his actions. “To save your life, another must give his.”

Arthur understood. Merlin traded his life for Arthur’s. He lives, and Merlin dies. 

Merlin gave his life for him. Merlin sacrificed _everything_ because of his loyalty to the kingdom and the King he believed he saw in Arthur. Merlin believed in him so much, not only was he willing to commit treason and practice magic to save him, to risk his life in order to allow the kingdom to thrive, but he literally _gave his life_ so that Arthur wouldn’t have to. 

Arthur understood before that he owed his life to Merlin, for all the times his servant had saved him, but now, Merlin had exceeded expectations, and Arthur didn’t know what to do, didn’t know how to react. He was completely speechless.

There was silence between the two, but the fire crackled merrily, the fire that, just a minute ago, had been dying out. Arthur didn’t notice, but Merlin had. With a quick nod of his head and flash of his eyes, the fire calmed itself.

Merlin relaxed some, the anger and the frustration ebbing away into confusion. Not looking at Arthur, he sat back down.

Arthur spoke, voiced the one thing going through his head.

“You died for me…”

It was a soft question, but also, not a question at all. 

Arthur didn’t see some cowardly idiot, who ran and hid whenever there was danger, like he had so often accused Merlin of being so many times in the past; he saw a brave, powerful man who rose up to any threat of danger to protect him; he saw his friend, his dear, loyal, best friend, who was dead because of him. 

Or going to be.

“How long do you have?”

Merlin shook his head. “That’s the weird part. I should already be dead. I don’t know why I’m not.”

—

At the top of the hill rested the body of Morgana. Arthur silently insisted they stop.

Her skin was white as ivory and her face relaxed and peaceful. She looked absolutely nothing like the Morgana that so hated him and wanted him dead. Arthur, instead, only saw the Morgana he had grown up with, the Morgana who had been like a sister to him. It was clear from Merlin’s body language that he saw the opposite, that he saw only the evil sorceress that ruined their lives.

Every single day, Arthur missed his bygone sister, and he was never given a chance to mourn that loss. He decided that now was the best time, now, since they have a body to bury. He also didn’t want to remember Morgana for her wickedness, but for her loveliness. She had been Merlin’s friend, too, he knew, so Merlin should understand just fine.

“She was loved once. We should honor that memory.”

After a moment of silence, he glanced expressionless at Merlin, who stood a bit stooped, a bit despondent, and whose eyes didn’t quite seem focused on the object they were staring at.

“We won’t give her a knight’s funeral, but the least we can do is bury her.”

That time, Merlin nodded. 

Arthur finally got himself to move, started looking around for a flat stone or something to dig with. Having mumbled that out loud, Merlin stopped him, “I can do it, if you’d like me to.”

Arthur ceased his searching, turned, and curiously peered right into Merlin’s eyes. He knew what Merlin was suggesting. He understood just fine, but he still hated magic—but he trusted Merlin. There was a little bit of fear, a little bit of panic, but he replied, “Y-yes. That’d be helpful.”

He just agreed to the use of magic, condoned it, _requested_ it…

He climbed the slight incline back to where Merlin and Morgana were, and trudged right past, Merlin watching him the whole time. He came to stop underneath a large tree, where the grass kept its distance, and the open soil a bit damp from the morning.

“Here.” He stated, “We’ll put her here, under this tree.”

Arthur gripped her under her shoulders, while Merlin lifted her legs, and together, they carried her up toward the tree. With a short, mumbled spell, there was a sizable hole in the ground. They dropped her none too gently, and another spell blanketed her in the soft dirt.

No words were said for several long minutes as the two men respected and mourned a time gone by. But when the time was ready, Merlin broke the stillness.

“It’s over now. She’s gone.”

Arthur hummed in acknowledgement.

Another moment of silence passed before Merlin spoke again.

“The horses never came back, so we’ll have to walk.”

Arthur nodded, completely okay with that for some reason. He felt great, better than he could ever remember, so walking would be nothing. 

An unrelated question popped in his head, though, and he asked it, if anything, to further veer their minds away from gloom and sadness.

“When did you get a Dragon to breathe on my sword?”

—

Half a mile in, the two were stopped and quite startled by a knight materializing out of nowhere right beside them. It was Percival, and he had been tracking Morgana, hoping she hadn’t gotten to them yet. He was visibly very glad she had not hurt them.

“Sire! You’re all right!”

Arthur had drawn his sword at the fright, but re-sheathed it upon seeing a friendly face.

“Percival! For the love of—“ He smiled, “…for being such a big guy, one would think you’d make more noise.”

Merlin hadn’t heard Arthur talk like his normal self in a while, he almost thought Arthur was a changed man, battle-weary or something, but hearing his innocent jibe and seeing him hug his knight gave Merlin hope for his future, hope that Arthur would treat him like he used to, hope that the two of them could go back to what they once were. Regardless of Arthur’s words before, Merlin was worried he and Arthur’s relationship would be fractured. This interaction relieved him of that.

Arthur hadn’t changed. The battle and revelation had just put him off a bit.

Merlin’s toothy grin disappeared, though, when Percival told them about his and Gwaine’s run-in with Morgana. Arthur reassured him that she was dead, but couldn’t say anything about his most loyal knight.

“He’s dead.” Percival glumly reported, “She stabbed him.”

_No._

Gwaine was beloved by all of Camelot. He had been one of Merlin’s best friends and one of Arthur’s best knights. How could he just be dead?

They went in shock, each one silent, as there was nothing to really say. Gwaine was always a loud, boisterous, cheerful kind of man, so it seemed wrong for the journey to be noiseless when he was so obviously with them, in their thoughts, the whole way. It was wrong, but it was right, and the tears not shed for the innocent girl were shed for the good man.

No one commented, no one said anything, but they all knew that they didn’t have to. Each one was thinking the same thing. Each one mourned the loss of a best friend.

It didn’t matter if they had to carry his body back to Camelot, they were going to give him a knight’s funeral. Arthur spoke his thoughts aloud, and all silently agreed. Percival led the way.

—

The large knight broke the silence with a quiet, “Just over here.”

Then he saw him.

Gwaine was laying on the ground, peacefully, with his arms crossed over his chest, his sword absent. The pose of the dead. And Arthur’s heart jumped again. 

The whole way there, there had been hope that Gwaine had not died, that Percival was mistaken. Maybe he had read the signs wrong. Maybe he felt in the wrong place for a pulse. Maybe Gwaine was just unconscious and needed help. But seeing Gwaine laying like that, like so many other knights, like all his men that fell at Camlann, wrenched him apart. It destroyed him, demolishing any hope he had of his future. How could he have been so stupid, so foolish to think that he was a good king? How arrogant must he have been to think that his mortal men could prevail against an army led by an evil sorceress? He had as good as taken his men’s lives himself. He sacrificed them, for _him, for his own selfish purposes._ He ruined his own kingdom.

He didn’t deserve to be king. 

Merlin’s voice penetrated his dark thoughts, allowing a faint beam of light through.

“He’s not dead!”

And Arthur leapt to his side, crouching by Gwaine, his earlier thoughts all but abandoned. 

Merlin continued, “He’s hardly breathing, and he’s practically on fire.”

He was gently poking and prodding at various parts of Gwaine, checking for something Arthur did not know, but assumed to be signs of life or other injuries beside the stab wound on his lower left abdomen.

“Can you help him?” Arthur earnestly questioned.

Merlin jerkily nodded and dished out instructions, “Percival, do you know what sage looks like?”

He swiveled his head around to look at Percival, nearly behind him, who hesitated but nodded.

He continued, “I’ll need a good handful or two. What about Coriander? Mint? Comfrey?”

Percival hesitated longer, but eventually shook his head, “Only sage and mint.”

Merlin, quick to think on his feet, turned immediately to Arthur, “Get his outer clothes and armor off, and start a fire. I’ll need boiling water, and strip your cloak into bandages,” turned back to the knight, “Two handfuls of sage and two of mint. I’ll find the others. Be gone no longer than a half hour,” and finally turned back to Arthur and Gwaine, “he doesn’t have much time.”

Arthur nodded his understanding, and began rearranging Gwaine’s limbs, to more easily remove his outer garments. Merlin and Percival went off, in search of their herbs.

It wasn’t long at all before Arthur became erratically frustrated with his first task. Removing chainmail and thick leather from an unresponsive body was no easy task, and Arthur was sweating from the effort. The chainmail lay in a heap next to him and Arthur worked stiff arms through the customary leather jackets of the knights. He had just gotten one arm out and went to easily pull it off of the other when he saw, on the back on Gwaine’s neck, four little puncture wounds, like needles, or snakebites. He wondered if Merlin had seen them as well, and he worried for his friend. _Oh, Gwaine. What had she done to you?_

He didn’t dwell on it too long, he still had to finish his orders. He swiftly glided the jacket from the arm when the thought came to him that he had quickly and willingly permitted his servant to order him about. And he had followed those orders without question. If Merlin had been an evil sorcerer, would he be able to easily manipulate Arthur? Would Arthur even question his orders?

As it was, Merlin hadn’t told Arthur to do anything evil or wrong, so he didn’t really ponder his commands. But, was Arthur that gullible, that easily persuaded?

A branch rustled just overhead, and Arthur stood up, startled again, wary of enemy troops still on the move. But a bird just flew off, and Arthur ranked a hand down his face. He was being paranoid. He knew Merlin wasn’t evil, and that the situations would be completely different. If it was anyone other than Merlin, he would definitely question his orders. He always thought before acting.

Arthur made sure Gwaine wasn’t laying on any rocks or branches before scouting around them in search of dry wood or twigs to burn. 

He had a whole armful when he went back to the makeshift camp, and he knew he’d need to find some water somewhere. Merlin needed to boil some of those herbs he went looking for, and in order to boil something, one must have water. 

Arthur dropped the kindling gracelessly.

_They had no pot._

They had no pot to boil the water in, or store it in. How was Merlin going to be able to help Gwaine if he couldn’t use the herbs? He couldn’t! Gwaine’s only hope then would rest with Gaius, but there’s no way the three of them could get him back to Camelot in time.

Gwaine would die out here.

Except, no. He wasn’t thinking straight. What Gwaine needed most were bandages. The herbs would probably just fight against infection. Merlin knew what he was doing, and Arthur was sure he could do so without water. At least, Arthur hoped.

He sat down and began tearing at his cape.

It must’ve been about the half hour mark, because Percival rushed back into camp, a clump of greenery tightly clenched in only one hand. 

So, he could only find one of them. What did that mean for Gwaine? 

Percival came forwards more, and knelt down by their unconscious friend, carefully setting his bundle of herbs aside so that he could grasp the man and set him up against a tree. 

Arthur was about to ask why, but Merlin darted back and immediately toward the pile of sticks, only one cluster with him, as well. He kicked the wood closer together before they went up in flames. Arthur gazed on, warily, watching the display of magic like he’d never seen it before. He wondered if he’d ever get used to magic…

Merlin wasn’t in a rush, but his movements were turbulent and fitful, twitchy. Arthur could almost see his brain thinking a thousand thoughts like wild horses, uncontrollable, fierce, and oh-so-powerful.

He looked around the camp, eyes scanning for something. Arthur interrupted his search, though, knowing that Merlin probably already knew this, but spoke it aloud anyway.

“Merlin, we have no pot for the water.”

Merlin glanced at him and stared, thinking and thinking some more. Arthur had a hopeless expression on his face, but Merlin was determined. 

His eyes darted to a spot just below Arthur’s shoulder, and he bolted towards it. Arthur turned as Merlin ran past him, noticed how Merlin’s eyes turned gold for a second, and nearly fell over when he saw the grey, stoney, cauldron behind him. _How had he not seen that?_

Merlin grabbed it with both hands and heaved it up and over to the fire, setting it on a wooden rack that hadn’t been there a minute ago. He knelt down beside it, muttered something Arthur couldn’t make out, and then there was a splotching and hissing sound. What looked like water had rippled over the sides and put out the fire.

Arthur started forward, needing to get closer, to know what’s going on.

There’s no way he could have _not_ seen a cauldron that size sitting just behind him, so he concluded that Merlin had used magic to create it somehow. That rack hadn’t been there a second ago, and Percival hadn’t gone near it, so he concluded that Merlin had used magic, again, to build it. That pot had to have been completely empty or Merlin wouldn’t have been able to carry it across camp, so he must’ve used magic to fill it up. And he messed it up, too, because there was too much water and it ran over the sides, quenching the fire beneath it. 

Which was ablaze, yet again, not a moment later. Must’ve been more magic.

Arthur had never seen so much magic being used in such a small timespan before. It amazed him, yet terrified him of the breathtaking power Merlin had. He remembered what Gaius had told him, that some said that Merlin was the most powerful of them all. _Merlin._ How was that even possible?

He got closer to the pot, as Merlin stepped away, and Arthur noticed that the water was already boiling. _Magic._

Merlin came forward with Percival’s handful of sage, snapping the leaves off the stems as he did so, and then dropped them in the pot. Some yellowy color seeped from the leaves and Arthur distantly heard himself asking, “What’ll that do?”

It began emitting some sort of steam, of gas, and Merlin gathered it together in a bubble-looking thing— _magic_ —and answered, “It’ll help him breathe.”

He magicked the vapor over toward Gwaine, and Percival leaned back a little to give it room. The fumes hung in the air around Gwaine’s head and face, encompassing it like a helmet.

Arthur should have guessed that was why Percival had set him upright, to alleviate the pressure on his lungs so that he could get his much-needed air. He should have thought about that, he should have made sure Gwaine was as comfortable as he could have been, but he hadn’t. He hadn’t even _thought_ about it. Was Arthur a selfish person, was he a selfish king?

Merlin spoke as he continued to work, dumping the tea out and refilling the pot.

“The mint would have helped the bites on his neck, but Percival couldn’t find any. It’s not the priority and Gaius can treat it better, anyway.”

The water began boiling again— _magic?_ —and Merlin tossed in his bundle of herbs. 

“What—“ Arthur began, but Merlin cut him off, “This is comfrey, it’ll also help him breathe.”

Arthur just sat back and watched as Merlin added more vapor to the diminishing supply enclosing Gwaine’s head.

Magic was the most evil thing Arthur had ever known. It snaked its way into Morgana’s head and drove her insane. It reared its nasty head and lashed out at his father, who died, unfortunately, unable to fight back. It had weaseled and wriggled its way, scheming, into Arthur’s life, and had taken over. It had wrapped itself around him like a snake trying to choke its victim ever since he was conceived in his mother’s womb. As a testament to that alone, his mother had given her life so that Arthur might have a chance. Such evil had been an ever-present threat his whole life, yet now, it was before him, not attempting to hide in the least. 

Magic always needed a vessel, something corporeal, tangible, so that its will might be carried out; thus it had taken and continued to take innumerable hosts, destroying their lives in the process. It doesn’t manipulate like a ventriloquist; no, it doesn’t even act on its own accord. It convinces the vessels that they _want_ to do it, that they want to practice magic, and defy their king. Then they do, they are responsible for their own actions, they’re not even aware that they were manipulated. There’s not way to separate the magic from the sorcerer, and once a man has it, he is evil. He might not know it, he might not even seem like it, but he is. The sorcerer is cunning, deceptive, pitiless, and about all, rebellious to the point of wanting Arthur dead. They’re always the same, always so evil.

Or, at least, that was what his father had always taught him. Arthur knew things to be different, knew that magic was but a weapon to be wielded, albeit, a very powerful weapon that chose its own wielder, but otherwise there could be some good to magic. Magic was not a sentient entity with its own thoughts and intents. Magic corrupts, because power corrupts. 

But Merlin. Merlin was different. Merlin had been contacted at an early age, had magic take over his life when he was but a child. Or so, Arthur assumed. Perhaps after his father died? Nonetheless, Merlin had fought with the magic, contended with the wickedness, and had triumphed as the victor. Merlin wasn’t influenced by the power of magic; instead, Merlin was the one who manipulated the sorcery, used it to _his_ ends. Magic had lost. Merlin had not been corrupted.

Such displays of his power, though, put Arthur on edge. If Merlin continues to openly use magic, would he be corrupted, then? After all, all this time he had been hiding, fearing for his life, and had used it very little. Using it more and more, though, exercising his strength to the point where he felt like nothing could hold him back—would that corrupt him?

Sir Gwaine may be able to breathe a bit better now that Merlin’s helped him, but he was still unconscious with a scorching fever, a stab wound, and a couple strange bites on the back of his neck. Merlin quickly got up to grab the pile of bandages Arthur had made, and asked, “Could you two hold him up? I need to clean and bandage his wound.”

Arthur moved forward to help Percival. Merlin tore another large chunk from Arthur’s cape (he hadn’t torn the entire thing up), soaked it in the herbal water, and dabbed the bloodied areas to remove dried blood. 

“It’s already stopped bleeding, which is very good.”

After only a few short moments, he had the knight wrapped and good to go. Merlin had even wrapped the bites on Gwaine’s neck. They gently laid him back against the tree, rearranging his limbs so he wouldn’t fall over.

Arthur sat back, plopping onto the grass, thinking. Gwaine had been bleeding and unconscious for over a day now, how had not died before then? It’s a great thing Merlin was able to help him, Arthur wasn’t sure if Camelot needed another knight to mourn. But, would he wake? Would they wait there until he did (or died) or should they carry him back to Camelot to let Gaius see to him?

He was still mulling the choice over when Merlin spoke, “There’s nothing else I can do for him.”

That was that, then. They would carry him.

“Except… I could try…” Merlin glanced at Arthur, but didn’t really heed him at all. Arthur, however was watching the physician closely, waiting for him to finish. _Try what?_

Merlin muttered something under his breath; Arthur didn’t know what language it had been in, but he assumed it was magic. It seemed like a long spell, a fairly lengthy babble of syllables. Merlin’s eyes flashed gold, and Gwaine opened his eyes, gulping in a great, welcoming breath—of freshly brewed herbs which made him cough.

—

“So, how many spells do you know? What can you do?” Gwaine’s voice was hoarse, and sounded like he had screamed too much a couple days prior.

The rejuvenated knight, it seemed, had accepted Merlin’s magic with open arms, and instead of silently pondering the meaning behind it all, he preferred to voice his thoughts and questions. Arthur was thankful, though; it meant that he didn’t have to. And he hadn’t realized it before, but there was a lot about his friend that he didn’t know (that he didn’t know he didn’t know).

“Well, there’s not really a specific number. And they’re not really specific spells. It’s a language, and easy enough to pick up. I just tell things what I want them to do and they do it.”

Merlin, it seemed, was also thankful Gwaine was voicing his questions, even though it pained him (for which Merlin wished he wouldn’t so his throat could heal). Arthur supposed that the boy had never really talked about it all, the magic, lies, secrets, etc. with anyone before, besides Gaius, but Merlin had told him that Gaius got a bit uncomfortable when they spoke about it. Getting it all off his chest and actually being accepted instead of ridiculed or killed actually really helped Merlin. Instead of feeling like rubbish for everything, he was allowed to be happy and proud and (Arthur didn’t particularly like it, given that he was king and all, but Merlin was more powerful than the royal would ever hope to be) he was finally given the chance to gloat.

“Did you tell that one dragon to sod off?”

Arthur swiveled his head around to see Merlin’s reaction to the question, and to more easily hear the conversation. 

“Yeah, he wouldn’t listen at first, but I made him. I couldn’t kill him, I just couldn’t.”

…Wait a second. Merlin had told Arthur that _he_ had dealt him a mortal blow, and that the dragon was _dead_. Arthur boasted about that to the other knights for _weeks_. And couldn’t only dragon lords control dragons? He had witnessed the death of the last dragon lord himself, so how in the world had Merlin trained himself to be so powerful that even a dragon would obey orders without doubting? Was he really that _great_?

“ _Hang on._ You told me that I killed the dragon.”

Merlin’s cheeks flushed with color, but he didn’t seem otherwise ashamed.

“Well, I couldn’t exactly tell you. Uther would’ve burnt me at the stake.”

Gwaine butted in, coughing, exactly when Merlin left off. “I thought only dragon lords could control the dragons. How did you manage to do it?”

Merlin beamed, “I am a dragon lord.”

That struck Arthur speechless. How in the world was Merlin a dragon lord? His father had told him that the power flowed in the blood, that even the most powerful sorcerer couldn’t study himself into that status. 

“We watched the last dragon lord die, together. How did you come by the power?”

“…He was my father, Balinor. The gift passed to me when he died.”

That man was Merlin’s father? That man that they searched so hard for only to spent half a day with was _Merlin’s father!?_ But Merlin had said that he had never known his father. Had he lied then, too? Or had he just found out? It did explain the tears and slight depression, though, at the time, Arthur had just thought Merlin was grief-stricken for the sake of Camelot and all their friends. And now that Arthur knew, he felt bad, guilty, for telling Merlin his own father wasn’t deserving of his tears. 

He was such a prat!

He knew his father hunted the man down, pretty much betrayed Balinor, and caused him to flee. He hadn’t known that the dragon lord had fled to Ealdor, but, he guessed, he had met Merlin’s mum there. _Heh_. Merlin is only alive because of the evils of Arthur’s father.

Arthur also knew that his father never stopped pursuing Balinor, which probably caused him to leave the happiness and life he had built up, leave Merlin, and live a life forever on the run. Merlin had said he had never known his father, if that was really true, and Arthur wanted to believe it, then it’d all be because of Uther, because of his father.

Did Merlin hate his father? The servant had been loyal to a fault to not only Arthur, but to the kingdom, and as an extension, the king himself. But Arthur couldn’t exactly remember a time where Merlin had been in the position to explicitly defy the king, so he couldn’t know for certain. Had Merlin ever really liked Uther? If Arthur had been in his position, and his father had been forced to leave under penalty of death to the whole family, he would certainly hate and loath the man responsible.

Determined not to let his mates bring his good mood down, Gwaine dished out another question.

“How long have you been practicing?”

Merlin’s reply was instant: “Oh, I’ve never _really_ practiced. I was born with magic, able to move things before I could even speak.”

_Born with it_? Oh, that made sense. Merlin had been _born_ with power running through his veins, a lot of power apparently. He didn’t just come upon it, but it had always been present, which was why it had never corrupted him.

Percival spoke up, “Must’ve been quite a troublemaker.” Laughing, he elbowed Merlin lightly in his side.

Merlin laughed, too, and continued explaining.

“There were times, before I fully understood it, that I had to practice a spell to get it right, but I only had to do that a handful of times.”

There was a lull in the conversation, each man thinking separate thoughts, until Arthur asked, “Did you ever practice on me?” He wasn’t angry, that much was evident by the look on his face.

“ _On_ you? No. I always did it _for_ you.”

Arthur was silent. Merlin explained further.

“That first tournament I was here for, with knight Valiant, after you sacked me—do you remember that?”

Arthur hummed in acknowledgement and nodded, “You used magic to make those snakes appear, didn’t you? I wondered why he would look confused by his own magic.”

“I practiced all night to get that spell to work. I kept pronouncing it wrong, it seemed.”

The sun had sunk below the trees, so they decided to set up camp at the nearest clearing. Which Merlin said— _magic_ —wasn’t too far away. The night wore on. They had no food, unfortunately, because they had no packs and no supplies, so they all just went to bed without. No more questions were posed for Merlin until Gwaine woke him the next morning. He was speaking rather loudly, which woke Arthur and Percival up, too. The large knight sat up, fully awake, but Arthur just huddled into himself, not really wanting to get up just yet.

“Merlin. _Merlin._ Merlin!”

Merlin finally twitched, and groaned out a , “What?”

“Have you ever tried to save my life? I mean, before today?”

Arthur decided he didn’t want to sleep anymore.

“Oh yeah, loads of times.”

“Really, now. When?”

“Oh, too many to say.”

Arthur sat up, and said, “Can we not start up with the questions yet? I want to hear the answers, but not right now.”

Gwaine relented, and went back to the fire. Merlin turned over and looked like he wanted to sleep some more. 

The fire went out with a sizzle, startling Arthur. Percival spoke up, “We should get moving. The queen misses you, sire.”

Gwaine commented, “And I want some food.”

There was peace and quiet for the first good hour or so, broken every now and then by a short comment, but Arthur knew Gwaine would ask more questions as soon as he fully woke up. He just hadn’t thought it would have taken a full hour.

Gwaine’s voice was rough and scratchy, and it still sounded painful to talk. Merlin had told the man yesterday evening to let his throat heal, but Gwaine just wouldn’t be deterred. Typical.

“Give me one good instance of you saving my life with magic, because I highly doubt you have.”

Merlin thought for several long moments, until Gwaine reminded him, “Well?”

“ _Well_ , there was the time Arthur went on his quest, and we faced those wyvern. I called them away.”

Oh yeah, Arthur had narrowly escaped those flying beasts. He remembered waking up to Merlin’s overly-cheerful face, remembered thinking, “ _The bloody idiot followed me way out here?_ ” He would have had to swim through that awful muck, cross that narrow bridge—get past that rude dwarf who tried to threaten him with magic and—

Gwaine’s eyes narrowed.

“Nah, I distinctly remember saving _you_ from that wyvern when I ran it through with my sword.”

“It wouldn’t have attacked me, I’m its master.”

“Fine. Give me another one, then.”

Arthur interrupted, though, “I remember now, my quest. That dwarf by the bridge said I was Courage, and that Strength and Magic would soon follow. You were Magic, Merlin, weren’t you? And Gwaine was Strength.”

Merlin nodded. Gwaine coughed and commented, “Batty little nutter, he was.”

Strangely, everyone in the group could feel Percival’s smile, even though he was ahead and leading.

Arthur remained silent, as had Merlin. He couldn’t believe his servant, clumsy, forgetful Merlin, had seen all the signs of danger, and he hadn’t. Merlin had saved him so many times, and it left Arthur feeling like a fool for not have also seen the threatening beasts and creatures and circumstances in general. As he had said before, Merlin was not an idiot.

But Arthur asked, “What happened to the amulet Morgana gave me? It was gone when I awoke.”

“Oh, she enchanted it to draw out your life. It was slowly killing you, so I removed it and gave it to the Fisher King.”

Of course Morgana would have tried to kill him, even way back then. Had Merlin known about her the entire time?

“The Fisher King?” Percival turned and asked.

Merlin explained, and all fell into blissful silence. Gwaine’s voice had finally gone out.

—

When they came within sight of Camelot’s walls, the first guard to see the king alive and perfectly well gasped in disbelief. 

Percival explained, “All the people thought you to be dead, sire.”

The party kept moving toward the walls as the guard ran to and fro, proclaiming the good news, and sending word to the queen.

Gwaine continued Percival’s story, “Except for me, my good mate here, the queen, and Gaius. The other knights weren’t looking for the king, they were looking for a body.”

“Sir Leon never doubted.” Percival corrected.

A castle guard galloped toward them with several horses in tow, and Arthur had never been more glad to see his steed before in his life. Oh, how he didn’t want to walk anymore!

Merlin was excited and overjoyed at the sight, too, though for a different reason.

“The horses! They’re all right!”

The mare might not have belonged to Merlin, but she was the one that always accompanied them on their journeys and, Merlin being Merlin, had grown quite fond of her. Arthur had to admit, he as well was quite relieved that his horse was just fine.

Riding through the city was an immense and overwhelming honor. Those that recognized the four haggard-looking men were cheerful and praised them, shouting exuberantly “The King! The king is alive! The king has returned” and “Long live the king!” They were truly, utterly happy that the king had not died, that the king could still rule over them. They loved him.

Arthur had never seen such a show before, such devotion and gratitude. Riding steadily by them, he felt waves of emotion flow over him. It wasn’t just the citizens in the lower town, but everybody. People were coming out of their homes just to reassure themselves that he was alive, and that meant so much. He had doubted his worth, doubted his honor, doubted if he should even be king, but his people ever stood by him. His people never gave up hope, never doubted, and never turned their backs on him.

The people need a king, just as much as a king needs people.

He’d be nothing without them.

Lost in his thoughts, he hadn’t realized they had been approaching the castle courtyard. Gwen was running down the steps, her dress hiked up in her hands so she could move more quickly. There was a very large smile gracing her beautiful face, and Arthur suddenly forgot about everything else. 

There was only Gwen, him, and the awful, stupid distance between them.

—

Later that afternoon, while the king and queen were alone in their chambers, Gwen finally got the chance to ask all the questions that had been building up since the battle.

“Oh, Arthur! What happened out there? No one could find you. You were gone for _days_.”

He took just a minute to answer, “I saw Mordred…”

Gwen’s eyes widened, but she remained silent.

Arthur continued, “He wounded me, but I struck him down.”

That might’ve been the wrong thing to say. Gwen stiffened just a bit, and asked, “How bad? Have you seen Gaius? Should we call for him?”

“No, no.” Arthur gently grasped her shoulders and looked her in her eyes, calming her and reassuring her that he was all right. “I’m completely fine. I’ve felt better these last few days than I can even ever remember.”

“How?” She was still worried.

“It was Merlin. He’s a—“

But then a thought struck hard and left him feeling cold, _What if Gwen doesn’t understand?_

What if Gwen believes him to be under some enchantment, that Merlin was the one to do it? Would she persuade the knights to turn against him and execute Merlin?

No, he wouldn’t allow that, couldn’t allow that. 

…He wasn’t sure if he could trust her entirely. 

But she had been Merlin’s friend from the very beginning, his first friend in Camelot. She has known him longer. Surely, she wouldn’t find Merlin evil, surely she wouldn’t turn her back on him.

But, he would have thought the same of himself. When he had found out about Merlin, he had initially panicked, tried to escape, and when he couldn’t, he had told Merlin to go away. Merlin had been his best friend for _years_ and he still, in that moment, had wanted nothing whatsoever to do with the servant. He had thought of so many things, thought he would have to do so many things. Would he kill Merlin? Banish him? Lock him in the dungeons and torture him until he told of everything he ever had to do with Morgana?

Surely, though. Gwen was a woman of empathy and sympathy, a woman who cared and defended with words and logic. Arthur, in his turn, was a man often seen as cold, who didn’t care enough, who attacked, and was sometimes cruel. They were opposites that fit so well together. Surely, Gwen would do the opposite of what he thought about doing. Surely, Gwen would accept Merlin with open arms, instead of turning her back on him.

_But, what if she didn’t?_

Arthur made up his mind. He wouldn’t tell her. He couldn’t bear to think about Merlin **burning** because of Gwen, because of him. 

But he couldn’t lie to her. That’d hurt her too much of she found out. And then, what if Gwaine or Percival said something? Gwen would be naturally curious about how Gwaine survived. Could all three of them hold up a lie for so long? Gwaine most likely wouldn’t be able to get through the day.

But they had no choice. This was Merlin’s _life_ on the line. They had to at least try.

He prepared himself mentally. He _had to_ lie to her.

“Yes? Arthur? A what?”

“A… an excellent physician.”

“…Really? _Merlin_?” 

“I wouldn’t have believed it either, if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes.” He still couldn’t believe it.

“Well, I’m glad he’s learned so much.” She rose up to kiss his forehead, “And I’m glad he has healed you.” She sat back down. “I owe him my life…”

Arthur understood. He owed Merlin everything, more than just his life. He wasn’t sure what all that entailed, but he’d be dead a thousand times over if it weren’t for Merlin. The boy had probably saved Gwen’s life, too, and the whole of Camelot, for that matter. 

Such noble and incredible deeds going unnoticed and unrewarded for these past ten years. Arthur wasn’t sure what he’d do, but he’d make it up to Merlin. Perhaps, he’d knight the lad…

It was nearing supper time, and Arthur needed to have that talk with two particular knights, so he dismissed himself.

“I need to talk to the knights. I’ll tell you more this evening.”

“All right. Then I can have you all to myself.”

She didn’t seem annoyed, and Arthur was thankful that he hadn’t hurt her by dismissing her so soon.

—

Gwaine and Percival weren’t exactly missed. The knights were still recovering after the battle, dealing with their dead, and looking for the missing king, so no one had noticed that the two had left. They hadn’t been worried over, either, because they had already been seen alive for a whole day, helping out.

None of the knights were _overly_ joyful when they galloped back with the king, not like they’d been when they’d actually seen the king. They did get a few pats on the back, a few “Nice work”s, and overall, they were satisfied with that. They didn’t do any of the stuff they’ve done for recognition or praise, but for the good of the kingdom, for their king, and for their friend. 

So, they just sat in silence in the armory, taking their time to take their chainmail off and properly putting away their swords. Percival didn’t even say anything when Gwaine took his socks off.

But they had not been congratulating themselves. There was no job well done. Which prompted Gwaine to ask his good friend.

“What happened to Morgana?”

The armory was quiet, all the knights were outside rejoicing over the return of the king, so Percival heard the question very clearly. He was sitting beside the other knight, and turned his head to read the expression on his face. He didn’t say anything right away, and Gwaine followed up.

“I failed, told her everything, and I thought I was going to die. What happened?”

He, too, turned toward his friend, needing the answers to be written in the expressions on Percival’s face, but still, he remained quiet.

“What is it? Percy, _please_.”

He hesitated but answered, “She caught up to them, but Merlin killed her. I don’t know more than that.”

Gwaine sighed and put his head in his hands. He had set off to kill Morgana, the most powerful sorceress the world has ever seen. He had set off to kill her, with a sword. And then, after he failed that, he had told her where Merlin was taking Arthur, told her exactly where they were going and when they’d probably get there. He had failed, again.

_What had he been thinking?_

If Arthur had died, he would never have forgiven himself. 

Percival’s mind was somewhere else, and he broke Gwaine out of his depressing thoughts.

“Merlin is the most powerful sorcerer to ever walk the earth.”

Gwaine looked up, expecting his friend to continue. 

“And he’s been living in a place that brutally slaughters those like him.”

Gwaine stiffened, sat up straight, and said the first thing that crossed his mind.

“And now the king knows.”

Arthur hates all things to do with magic, has declared war against magic users, and has always upheld the law. The law says all sorcerers must die. By rights, Arthur must kill Merlin.

But Merlin has always been Arthur’s loyal servant, his best friend. Merlin has always been there for Arthur, whenever he was needed. The boy didn’t have a single evil bone in his body, didn’t even have _thoughts_ of treachery. He’s been nothing but loyal. How could Arthur put him to death? It just wasn’t right. 

Surely, though, Arthur wouldn’t kill Merlin. He had the perfect chance to do that while they were alone coming back to Camelot. What would he do then, instead? Would he sack Merlin? Maybe even banish him?

No, he would have banished Merlin while they were near the border, far from Camelot. He had had the perfect opportunity, but he hadn’t done _anything._ He actually seemed a little cheerful.

So, what was going to happen to their dear friend?

“What do you think he’ll do?” His voice might have been wavering a bit, but the situation called for it. 

Percival shook his head, “Seemed like he’s fine with Merlin.”

Maybe he’d just let Merlin continue about his life, doing his job, serving the king. Would Arthur make a proclamation, telling the kingdom that Merlin was the one sorcerer that was hands-off?But, surely, if he did that, the knights and citizens who had been hurt by magic, who had been whole-heartedly supporting the great purge would revolt. They could have an uprising on their hands. Arthur wouldn’t risk a civil war over one man, a servant whom the law dooms to die.

What would Arthur do?

The armory door opened slowly, creaking and squealing on its hinges, echoing hollowly around the near-empty room. Both knights turned to see who was coming. 

…Speak of the devil…

It was the king, just standing there, watching them. He had already been stripped of his chainmail and armor and was holding the bundle in his arms, no basket in sight. Some of his chainmail hung dangerously low, near his legs. He’s lucky he didn’t trip on his way down here. 

He threw his pile on the floor beside the door and came in.

“I wanted to talk to you both about a matter most urgent to me.”

Gwaine and Percival stood up, and Gwaine interrupted.

“First, your highness, tell us what you intend to do with Merlin.”

Arthur hesitated, looked away, and in a solemn voice, resigned to his decision once it leaves his mouth, said, “I do not intend to do anything.”

He turned around, exposing to them his back, “That is actually what I wish to speak with you about.”

Gwaine cracked a grin. _He knew it._ He knew Arthur wouldn’t do anything drastic. Merlin was the king’s best friend, and everyone knew it, despite Arthur’s incessant denial-like insults and tricks. He knew that Arthur would never be able to survive if anything happened to Merlin, and he would never be able to survive with himself if _he_ did anything to him, either.

“I am most happy to hear that. Guess I’ll be staying after all, Perce.”

Honestly, the knight hadn’t thought about what he’d do if Arthur acted out against Merlin. He’d been too caught up on thinking about what the king would do to spare himself any thought.

However, now that it has actually crossed his mind, he knew without a doubt that if Arthur did anything to Merlin, the king would no longer have his allegiance. If Merlin was banished, he’d go with him. If Merlin was executed, he’d save him and make a run for it. 

Arthur turned around. “I would never be able to live with myself if I let anything happen to him.”

There was a very pregnant pause. Arthur continued.

“Before, Merlin said that only Gaius knew… about him.” 

Gwaine cut in, “You mean, his magic, his power, his name, the legends. et cetera.”

“Yes, that. But now, that number has increased by three.”

Gwaine interrupted again, “I say we keep it a secret. I’m not telling you how to rule your kingdom, sire, but I fear many people and many of your knights will revolt if you suddenly proclaim magic legal, and that you have been harboring an all-powerful sorcerer for ten years.”

Arthur looked vaguely annoyed about Gwaine’s lack of manners and impoliteness, but otherwise paid it no attention.

“Yes, my thoughts exactly. I came down here intending to give a speech, and more or less order you both to remain silent, but it seems I don’t have to.”

Percival spoke this time, “We would never betray Merlin, no matter the cost. You have my sworn secrecy.”

“And mine.” 

Arthur smiled. “Great to hear it.” He clasped Percival’s arm, and then Gwaine’s before stating, “It’s nearly time for dinner.”

“You wouldn’t want to be late, now, so run along little princess.” Gwaine laughed, and Percival smiled.

Arthur was nearly out the door when he turned around for one last comment.

“Oh, also, I haven’t told Gwen, so…”

“No worries, we’ll say nothing.” Gwaine sat back down on the bench.

“Do you plan to?” Percival remained standing.

“…no.”

There was nothing else to add, so the king turned and left.

—

Gwen would be lying if she said she wasn’t suspicious about Arthur.

He had paused in the middle of his sentence, while he was telling her about Merlin. Gwen was fairly confident that Merlin was the sorcerer that saved them all at Camlann, and he had probably been saving their lives from the very moment he came to Camelot. Gaius had all but directly said it. She had been eager to hear what Arthur would say happened, and then he stopped, as if he were thinking about what to say. 

Was he telling the truth, that Merlin had healed him with herbs? Or had Merlin deceived him, actually healing him with magic?

Maybe Arthur didn’t yet know. 

Should she talk to him about it? 

If she told Arthur that Merlin had magic, would he even believe her? Even thinking it over in her head, she didn’t want to believe herself. But all the weird looks, weird disappearances, and weird answers to her questions these past several years, it all made sense. Merlin had been secretly using magic to keep them safe. If Gwen hadn’t known Merlin so well and for so long, she would be tempted to think he had sided with Morgana, that he was evil and corrupt, just like many of the others. But she knew that couldn’t be. Merlin was too kind, too gentle, too good. There’s no way he was plotting against the throne. 

She trusted the sorcerer with her life.

But would Arthur? The king hated magic and magic users fiercely and held no room for them in his kingdom. Would he send Merlin away? Would he put Merlin to death?

Gwen didn’t want to think about that, didn’t want to find out.

So she decided she wouldn’t tell him. She would keep secrets from him.

When Arthur came back later on that evening, the queen said nothing. No questions, no comments, no observations. Just hugged him, kissed him, and rubbed his tired shoulders as he ate, thankful that he was alive.

But then Merlin knocked, cracked the door open, stuck his head in the crack, and asked, “You asked for me?”

Gwen didn’t like the look on his face or the tone of his voice. One was creased with anxious worry and the other laced with discomfort. 

Arthur lifted his head and answered, “Yes, Merlin. I wish to speak with you on a private matter.” 

He stood up while Merlin entered and softly shut the door behind him.

Arthur turned to Guinevere, “I’m sorry, Gwen. Would you excuse us?”

She was surprised at the turn that took, but nonetheless obliged, “Of course.” Standing on her tip-toes, she kissed him and left.

Merlin watched the door close with a soft click, again, before he turned back to Arthur. The warlock stood in the middle of the room, hands behind his back, the proper way of standing like a servant. He didn’t make any move to approach Arthur, but seemed tense, stiff where he stood.

The king sat back in his chair, lifted a goblet of water to his mouth, but didn’t drink. He seemed deep in thought.

“Sire?”

“No need to be so tense, Merlin. I mean you no harm.” He cast his eyes toward Merlin to see the absolute relief wash over every inch of him. The servant walked around to stand by the chair on the king’s right.

“That’s a relief. I was afraid you’d banish me, or something. Maybe throw me in the dungeons.”

“Well you did break the law on several occasions—“

“But I was—“

“It doesn’t matter, Merlin… I have decided to—“ He cleared his throat, “—grant you pardon.”

Merlin brightened, “What does that mean, exactly?”

Arthur smiled, happy that he was saying this, and happy that Merlin was benefitting from what he was about to say, “I have decided that the laws against magic do not, and will not, apply to you.”

Was it possible for Merlin’s smile to get any brighter?

“However, I can’t just allow you to use your magic willy-nilly. I am not repealing the law, just making an exception.”

“Ah, I see. It’s still a secret.” Merlin deflated a little.

“I don’t think the knights, nobles, or people will take too kindly about a sudden appearance of a sorcerer combined with the sudden repeal on magic. It’d look far too suspicious. Gwen would probably think I’m enchanted.”

Arthur set the goblet down, leaned forward onto the table and clasped his hands together. Merlin remained quiet, still standing.

“Have a seat, Merlin. I have more questions.”

He did as he was told, and commented, “I’m surprised Gwaine hasn’t asked them all yet.”

“It’s just… You’re a good person, Merlin, and I’ve known you for several years now. I trust you, with my life. I just want to know if there’s anything you’d defect for—“

“Arthur. If it’s any sort of question about my loyalty to you, forget it. My magic is for you, no one else. Not some other kingdom, not some other powerful magical army. I am here until you die. Don’t let anyone convince you otherwise.”

Arthur could do nothing but stare at his servant, a small smile on playing on his lips.

After a brief minute of silence, Merlin, relieved to not have to hide in front of Arthur anymore, showed his talents by sliding the goblet of water to himself, and, with the king’s wide eyes watching his every movement, slowly took a sip of it. 

But it was empty.

Trying to lighten Arthur up, go back to their old ways, he mock scowled at the empty cup. Then refilled it with simply a flash of his eyes.

But Arthur just sat there, with wide eyes, not quite liking what he just saw.

“I trust you, Merlin.”

That piqued Merlin’s ears. Didn’t he just say that? Why is he repeating himself? What’s with that look on his face?

“But I do not trust magic.”

He looked into Merlin’s eyes.

“But I _am_ magic, Arthur.” Merlin was a bit confused. Didn’t Arthur pretty much say he was fine with Merlin? Now he’s saying he’s not.

“I understand that you’ve mastered it, but I just don’t like it.”

That made a bit of sense to Merlin. Arthur had gone his entire life hating, disliking, and disapproving of magic. That’s not going to change in just four days. He needs more time, but he’ll come around.

“I’ll keep it low-key.”

That seemed to satisfy Arthur, “Thank-you.”

Merlin took a sip of the fresh water.

“Now,” Arthur’s tone was significantly lighter, “I’d like my goblet back before I die of dehydration.”

“But I refilled it. It’s my water.”

“If I die, what’ll you make of your ‘destiny’ to protect me? Besides, I’m the king, and I order you to give me my drink back.”

 


End file.
